


Tin Cup

by HeyRachelViolet



Series: In the Dark of the Night [2]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: BAMF Mal (Disney), Child Abuse, Fae Mal (Disney), Gen, Hurt Jay (Disney), Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Isle of the Lost (Disney), Isle of the Lost (Disney) is a Terrible Place, Jay & Mal Friendship (Disney), Platonic Kissing, Possessive Behavior, Protective Mal (Disney), Sexual Abuse, jafar is a truly terrible parent, mal is a leader, she's also absolutely terrifying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyRachelViolet/pseuds/HeyRachelViolet
Summary: "It was anger, not worry, that steered her feet to the Junk Shop.She was about to let herself in and drag Jay out by his hair, when she stopped. The points of her sensitive fae ears twitched.It was strange, in a cold, horrifying way, to hear Jay, her solid, steady, unmoving right hand, let out a quiet, strangled, desperate sob.":::OR: Jafar is truly the worst kind of parent and Mal refuses to let her crew be treated like this.
Relationships: Jay & Mal (Disney)
Series: In the Dark of the Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762864
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	1. Jay (optional)

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: SEXUAL ABUSE WARNING. 
> 
> This one is gross guys. For my more sensitive people, I made sure that chapters two and three can be read without chapter one, which is the most graphic. Take care of yourself. I love you.
> 
> We're not gonna talk about the fact that I said I'd have this posted a month ago. We're just not.
> 
> Things to mention: French is the lingua franca of Auradon, so everyone can speak it, but most Isle people refuse to. Everyone is multilingual. A dialect that mixes elements of lots of languages is considered the Common language by the kids, but adults are more likely to use English. Italics is anything not in Common or English. If unspecified, assume Common. Fae have a lower body temp than humans (and half djinn) the djinn thing won’t be played with here, but I’m hoping to get a piece about it out eventually. Jay’s tattoo will be explained in a later work, I promise. There is a plan.
> 
> Buckle up everybody, it's a rough one.

Jay’s steady thief’s hands were trembling, the tin cup he held rattling in his grip as he raised it to his lips.

He felt horrifyingly small, sitting at the table in the back of the Junk Shop, his father a looming presence standing just far enough behind him to be out of eyeshot if he didn’t turn, a hot hand splayed between his shoulder blades. He wanted to crawl out of his skin.

He went to set the cup down when he’d drained half its contents, the bite of liquor in his nose, the lukewarm drink burning his throat on the way down. He should have known better. Jafar’s free hand clamped around Jay’s wrist in a bruising grip. The hand on his back lifted to his head, tilting it back. The cup was guided back to his mouth.

Jay didn’t struggle, even as everything in him screamed to _get away_. Get away from the hungry gaze he could feel at his throat. Away from the fingers that had begun to comb through his tangled hair, tugging at pieces and holding him at an angle that exposed too much of his throat. Get away from the itching, slimy, _horribly_ _wrong_ feeling about all of this.

The cup returned to the table with a thin clink. The hand on Jay’s head nudged him forward and he hung it over the table, wanting to hide the shame under his cheeks, letting his hair form a barrier between him and… everything. 

Jafar’s thumb was rubbing circles on his wrist and without thinking he tried to reclaim the limb, to bring it closer, under the shield of his hair. It was a weaker pull than he intended and Jafar’s grip just tightened again. Jay was fifteen and strong and fast and could get himself out of any knot or lock, but Witch’s Brew was the strongest drink the Isle had to offer and that had been his second full cup and he was already hot and tipsy. Another and he would probably be truly drunk. A few more after that… 

He never knew exactly how much Jafar made him drink on these nights. It was enough that, come morning, he would wake up on the floor shirtless, smelling of vomit, missing his shoes and belt, almost too sore to move. And when he got past the raging headache and the stiff limbs and washed himself, he would discover the tapestry of handprint bruises and bloodied lines that looked like nail scratches and rug burn on his hands and knees and the backs of his shoulders.

He would go about his day aching and coiled like a spring and avoiding the horrifyingly satisfied gaze of his father as it followed him around the shop until he could escape to the hideout: to Mal and Evie and Carlos and safety in numbers.

These kinds of nights had started happening not long after Jay had been declared an adult. That first time, he had thought it was cool, his dad offering him a drink. Until the fuzzy feeling started setting in and he had tried to stop. 

His father hadn’t taken that well.

He had shouted in Jay’s face, informing him that he would keep drinking, and he wouldn’t stop until Jafar let him.

Jay had tried to leave, but Witch’s Brew was strong and he’d never had a real drink before and he had already consumed more than an eleven year old body could tolerate; when he stood he stumbled and when he tried to run he’d fallen, his quick thief’s feet failing him. Dazed, he’d been able to summon no resistance when Jafar had turned him over with a kick. He hadn’t been able to get his arms up in time to block the one, two, three strikes from Jafar’s staff. 

The last thing he remembered of that first time was Jafar’s weight on his chest, a hand pinning his wrists, and coughing up the liquor that didn’t make it down the right pipe as Jafar poured it down his throat.

Jay didn’t fight back anymore.

But he’d forgotten for a moment in his slow, inebriated brain that Jafar was in control.

The grip in his wrist was immovable. A hand with long tan fingers bedecked with rings reached into the barrier Jay had created between them, removing the pitiful shield by tilting his chin up. Jay stayed still as the fingers moved carefully, almost lovingly, to brush the little strands that had stuck to his face behind his ear. He could feel sweat collecting across his forehead.

“ _Look at me, my little snake._ ” Arabic. Jafar hated speaking French or English.

The fingers still on his wrist loosened and trailed to Jay’s jaw, gentle pressure forcing him to meet the ex-vizier’s glittering gaze. Jafar was very close, having lent over to study his son’s features, both hands now cupping Jay’s face, thumbs brushing reverently over cheekbones, middle and ring fingers in the delicate notch just under and behind his earlobe, pinkys resting on a racing pulse in his neck. All Jafar would have to do is exert a little more pressure, and Jay would be unconscious in seconds, the blood supply to his brain blocked.

Jafar didn’t do that.

Instead, he trailed his hands lightly down Jay’s neck. One came to rest on a bare, unprotected shoulder (he wasn’t wearing his leather, just a black T-shirt Evie had taken the sleeves off of, so worn it was riddled with holes and almost see-through in places). The other leisurely following the curve of his Adam's apple down to the divot above his sternum.

Jafar let him turn away as he leaned in. Staring at a dark stain on the floor, Jay could feel the bristle of hair against his temple, headdress removed, then the barest touch of skin where his ear met his jaw. The hand on his shoulder moved to the back of his neck, under his hair, nothing but skin between Jafar’s manicured nails and Jay's assailable spine.

He could feel breath, hot and ragged, press across his ear and cheek and neck and no no no. This wasn’t okay and he wanted to run but he was already unsteady and he was only sitting and if he stood he was sure to fall and he wanted—

“ _You are mine_ ,” Jafar murmured musically into his ear, and everything in Jay screamed _No. I’m Mal’s. I’m Mal’s!_ But he only squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep from swaying into the unwanted touches and when Jafar asked, “ _Do you understand, little snake?_ ” all Jay could do was nod.

After a long, lingering moment Jafar’s heat pulled away and Jay released the breath he was holding. He opened his eyes to the sound of liquid pouring into a tin cup, and when it was set before him, Jay drained it with the clammy feeling of a hand between his shoulder blades.

:::

There was heat pressing against the base of his neck, unyielding in a world that kept tilting and swimming but wrong, so wrong because that heat was also pressed against his arm, all the way down around his hand, manipulating his own fingers into holding a tin cup filled again with the liquid that burned like cigarette butts on skin as it went down and he did not want.

He tried to turn away but then there was more heat: five points of it on his cheeks holding his head back and his jaw open and pouring in the burning liquid and he did not want!

He wanted Mal.

The tin cup was laid down and his hand was released and that should have been a relief but there were the pads of fingers skating over his lips and chin and throat to wipe away the dribbles that had escaped his lips and that wasn’t any better.

He wanted Mal to come and save him as facial hair scratched at his cheek and a shushing sound filled his ears and the heat of Jafar’s body had moved closer and there was a hand skimming over the muscles of his shoulders but he couldn’t see what was happening because there was another hand that he didn’t dare fight still forcing his head up and all he could see was dilapidated thatching.

:::

He was losing time. The candles were lower than he remembered, but all he had of the past hours (two? three?) was heat skimming over his chest and the taste of metal on his lips. He couldn’t remember when he’d lost his shirt but there was no longer anything between the skin of his chest and the residual burn of Jafar’s hands. He could still feel the cinch of his belt on his hips.

He wavered when the world rocked under him and it took longer than he liked to realize Jafar had dragged another stool up so closely to his side they had knocked together and he was now sitting with one leg behind his son and the other not quite in front, only barely in Jay’s periphery. 

A hand captured his jaw in a harsh grip—Jay felt blood vessels under his skin pop—turning him to face a blur of tan skin and dark eyes and flushed cheeks. Jafar must have had a little bit of Witch’s Brew himself to get that crazed look.

His usual extravagant robes were gone, leaving him in a thin, sweat-stained short sleeved shirt. 

Jay’s face was turned away again and Jafar’s breath was fire skimming over his shoulder. They stayed like that, with Jafer’s other hand tracing scars over his back and arm for a long time before Jafar stood, placed a lingering kiss to his temple, and took the tin cup, returning with it filled again.

:::

He was being cradled against Jafar’s chest and it was too hot and he pushed away. The arm around his arms and chest kept him in place despite his struggle. 

Jafar chuckled at the attempt, a hand lifting from Jay’s stomach to pet the hair from his son’s eyes as he slumped, defeated, a dry sob breaking free of his chest.

“ _Oh, my little snake,_ ” Jafar purred, tilting Jay’s head away, leaving his neck open. “ _You never do learn._ ”

And Jay was not drunk enough to deal with Jafar’s face pressing into his throat and the hot, soft hands that never worked a day exploring so much of his skin, on display without his consent. He tried to lean away and Jafar leaned with him, heat pressing all along his side, fingers beginning to dig into his skin.

He was hollowed out. Burned alive from the inside and all that was left was a skin he felt disgusting in and a bone deep ache for Mal or Evie or Carlos or _someone_ to _help_ _him_. But this was the Isle and there would be no help for a pathetic errand boy who hadn’t even fought back.

He was being gathered closer to his father’s chest, nudged this way and that to his father’s convenience, Jafar’s breath across his face, proximity prickling his cheek and nose and lips and a hand was slipping down, down, down to his belt…

And then the world was spinning out from under him and the oppressive heat of his father’s body was gone and Jay was trying desperately to stay upright with no support while Jafar strolled to the front of the shop to answer a knocking on the door.

Jafar was yelling and then he wasn’t and there was another voice and Jay couldn’t get all the words to line up and make sense but that didn’t matter because that second voice was Mal’s and help might not be a thing on the Isle but possessiveness was and he belonged to Mal and everyone knew what happened when someone messed with what was hers.

Vision screwed to Tartarus and with balance even a sea-faring landlubber would be ashamed of, Jay shoved to his feet and stumbled and staggered in the direction of Mal’s voice.

He didn’t make it.

Walking was slow going and he had to take a detour to the closest wall and make his way along that because sheer determination wasn’t going to keep him on his feet, but it didn’t matter. He heard the door shut before he was even halfway there and Jafar was sweeping back to see he had moved, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be and the anger on his father’s face twisted into unadulterated fury.

 _He’s going to kill me,_ Jay thought. 

It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Jafar’s long fingers wrapped around Jay’s biceps and pressed him back into the wall, the rough brick at his unprotected back. He leaned in closer, towering over his son. There was a tense moment and even in his haze of drink Jay could tell that the hesitation to do whatever it was he wanted to do meant something had gone wrong for Jafar; he didn’t know if he should feel triumphant or terrified.

Eventually, Jafar stepped back with a snarl, yanking Jay into the furthest recesses of the shop, fast pace blatantly ignoring his son’s uncooperative feet. Jay was nearly thrown onto the table, just managing to stay upright as Jafar stormed past him. 

Spitting curses all the while, Jafar retrieved his son’s typical leather vest, returned to the dazed boy, bodily turned him around, and manhandled him into the clothing. Before Jay could try to figure out what was happening he was being dragged roughly through the maze of shelves to the door and he was falling into blessedly cold air, such a welcome contrast to the horrible heat he’d been subjected to before.

Small hands with short, cracked nails held him steady and he had one arm wrapped around narrow shoulders to hold himself up and he ducked his face into wild purple hair and there was leather against his cheek and cool skin against his nose and she smelled like wind and fire and winter and it was all encompassingly Mal.

He was still shaking and sweating and knew he should be humiliated at being seen like this by someone who required him to be useful but he’d been degraded enough tonight and she wasn’t pushing him away and he felt _safe._

Mal was speaking. Jay could feel her throat working, hear the tight, restrained anger in her voice, but she wasn’t talking to him. She wasn’t angry at him. She was wrapping one firm arm around his back and pulling him to her side and then they were walking.

When he was sober, he would wonder how such a petite girl held so much of his weight without wavering. If he remembered. 

For now, he let her lead him through the dense midnight fog.


	2. Mal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mal could hear the low, slimy hint of murmured words. 'My little snake.' It made her want to kill something every time the syllables passed Jafar's thin lips."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped chapter one, don't worry. You should get all the information necessary to understand what's up, minus the grody details.

Mal wasn't worried. She was furious. She and Jay often prowled the night streets together. It was a throwback to times when it was just the two of them and just enough comradery to forget to worry about a knife to the back. Before the… something (Not fear. Not concern. Not worry. Those weren't allowed) that filled their chests when they watched Evie and Carlos walk back to their parents. Alone. Too small, too skinny, too sheltered but never protected.

Mal was the boss and Jay was her bruiser and sometimes they used the nights to make sure their claimed didn't need a quick escape.

Despite her disappointment in Mal's apparent lack of fae traits, Maleficent tried to teach her daughter of her heritage, of what the barrier had robbed her of.

Faeries had better instincts than humans. Almost prophetic. Normally Mal would have rejoiced in any indication of her unseelie lineage, but not now. Unease had been growing in the pit of her stomach for days and tonight it rose to a panicked crescendo that set her fingers and toes tingling.

Jay was incredibly intuitive. She relied on his instincts. He should have picked up on whatever she was feeling too, but she hadn't seen him anywhere.

And so it was anger, not worry, that steered her feet to the Junk Shop.

She had been about to let herself in and drag Jay out by his hair if she had to, when she stopped. The points of her sensitive fae ears twitched.

It was strange, in a cold, horrifying way, to hear Jay sob, but there was no doubt that was what she heard.

Jay, her solid, steady, unmoving right hand, had let out a quiet, strangled, desperate sob.

Mal could hear the low, slimy hint of murmured words. She didn't need to work at the translation to know what was said. She didn't even need to hear properly. " _My little snake_." It made her want to kill something every time the syllables passed Jafar's thin lips.

Dazedly, Mal stepped away from the door, slinking around to the alley between the Junk Shop and the apothecary next door. She shimmied through the narrow space almost to the end, then picked her way up the crumbling brickwork to the small jutt she could curl her toes into, putting her at eye level with a small peephole into the back of the shop near the ceiling.

She peered through and felt the cold dread in her gut catch fire.

Barely a moment passed but she took stock of the whole scene: two gallon jugs that would have held milk in Auradon stamped with the Witch's Brew insignia, one more than half empty; a tin cup on the table; Jafar, in a barely-there shirt and loose pants, raising his face from the crook of Jay's painfully craned neck with a pleased smile and hungry eyes; Jay cringing away from hands that wandered over his bare chest and kept him trapped against his tormentor; hands that ignored Mal's mark spread over her lieutenant's chest and arms in an undeniable claim; hands that began to drift to the buckle of Jay's belt. Evie had made that buckle.

Mal twisted away from the peephole, pressed her forearms to either wall and trusted the leather of her sleeves to protect her from the worst of the damage as she dropped. Her boots hit the ground and she flew through the alley because no. No, no, _no_.

She had suspected.

There were days when Jay showed up bleary and covering up a wince and a limp and he had handprints on his arms and she had to clean dozens of little scratches before letting him sleep off the hangover she could _smell,_ and when she asked him what happened he would say he didn't know and she believed him because he would look too sick and scared and tired to lie and he would list into her and she would let him and she had _suspected_ but she hadn't _done anything_.

But there would be time for all that later. Her fist was already banging on the Junk Shop door. The anger built, spreading from stomach to chest as she pounded with all her might until Jafar wrenched the door open.

" _What do you want?_ " he demanded with a glare, still speaking his mother tongue.

Mal put on the most amused smirk she could muster as she watched Jafar's eyes widen at the sight of her. Usually, that would be incredibly satisfying, but it did nothing to quell her desire to rip his fingers off knuckle by knuckle and stuff them down his throat.

"Mal," he said pleasantly, switching to English and attempting to recover from the potential disaster of disrespecting his most dangerous ally's daughter. "It is late for a house call, isn't it?"

Mal did not fail to notice the way he made sure to close the minimal gap between door and frame with his body. More caution than was strictly polite between allies.

"I need Jay," was the explanation she gave, pitching her voice just far enough to hopefully carry to Jay. Let him know she was here and she wasn't going to stand for this.

Jafar faltered, eye twitching, and attempted to cover it with a laugh. "I'm afraid now really isn't a good time."

Mal raised an eyebrow.

"I need him for a job."

Jafar smiled down at her indulgently and she smiled back, planning the most painful ways to remove his legs from the knees down—see how he likes being shorter for a change.

"I do apologize, my dear, but my son is rather… inebriated at the moment—" Mal fought the urge to bear her pointed teeth and growl "—and would be of little use on any kind of job."

"Good thing the job doesn't start till morning, then, isn't it?" She watched his eyes narrow. "So I'll be taking him. Now. He can sleep it off while the rest of us finish plotting."

Jafar glared at her. He knew she was lying. That was fine. It wasn't about whether or not he believed her story: it was about power.

"That wasn't a request, Jafar." She watched a vein in his temple pulse in the low light. "Unless, of course, you don't intend to honor your alliance with my mother?" And those were the magic words.

Jafar's jaw clenched, but he stepped back with a stiff, "Stay here."

Mal stayed.

The alliance agreement between her mother and the villains who followed her was simple: Maleficent was in charge, and Mal had unrestricted access to their children. She would get what she wanted, and so long as Jafar could get to Jay faster than she could, she wouldn't push her fortune.

It took longer than she liked, but then the door was swinging open and Jay's weight crashed into her. She allowed the momentum to carry the both of them out of Jafar's arms reach. The man himself stood in the doorway with a sour expression that reminded Mal of a child missing out on a treat. She fought the urge to plant herself in front of Jay and _dare_ him to try anything. Instead, she held her right hand man upright, allowing him to press his nose into her hair, and tried to ignore all the strong scents that did not belong to him.

The former-vizier turned to go back inside, but Mal had one more thing to say.

" _Jafar_ ," she called in his own language. He looked back at her lazily. " _I know what you have done to your son. I know what you were going to do tonight. He bears my mark, that means he is mine, and if you_ ever _so much as_ look _at him like that again, it will not be my mother you should fear. It will be me._ "

He considered her for a long moment, the beginnings of worry seeding deep in his eyes, then stepped inside and slammed the door behind him without a word.

Mal allowed herself three accelerated heartbeats to collect herself and hold Jay to her. She could smell Jafar on him, and booze, and sweat. Not exertion sweat or anticipation sweat or just-finished-a-job sweat. Fear sweat. It took her a moment of panic to find the usual leather and the barest hint of cardamon. She wanted to stay there, breathing in armor and spice and letting him breathe whatever he had found on her, but Mal knew the Isle never really slept. There were eyes and ears everywhere and this sort of display was dangerous.

She twisted so that Jay was bracing himself with an arm behind and over her shoulders, rather than around from the front, and half guided half dragged him away from the Junk Shop.

She pulled them through streets and alleyways that appeared empty. Streets and alleyways that would continue to appear empty if their occupants wished to live without permanent disability.

Mal didn't begin to relax until she had chucked half a brick at the "Danger Flying Rocks" sign and manhandled Jay up the stairs, hearing the entrance shake and clang shut behind her. Only then, hidden in the darkness of a landing with a tarp-covered window, did the tightness in her chest begin to loosen. No one would bother them here.

The energy began to leech from Mal's body as she ascended the last flight of stairs. Jay was bigger than her, and his weight was tiring her. His dragging feet caught on the warped flooring, nearly toppling both of them more than once, but they made it to Mal's bed where she unceremoniously deposited her first lieutenant.

Jay sat heavily, the mattress creaking under him. His gaze roved the room without focus while Mal took a first real look at Jay's condition.

He was obviously hammered. Might still be in the morning. Either way he would wake up with a headache worthy of the Fields of Punishment, and no clear memory of the evening.

Mal sighed, sinking onto the mattress beside her thief, her head in her hands. This was a mess, and it was her job to fix it. That meant making sure Jafar hadn't broken anything, that Jay wasn't bleeding, that his skull was still intact.

But first she needed to find something for Jay to puke in. She probably had an hour before she'd need it, but it paid to be prepared. Witch's Brew was a crude liquor, and something about the Isle made its work differently than Auradon liquor. At least according to the older villains who felt like sharing. The specifics didn't really matter. What mattered was that intoxication came fast and hard; vomiting, shakes, and trouble breathing came an unpredictable amount of time later.

She settled on dumping the fabric scraps out of a plastic bucket from Evie's atelier. It had a chunk out of the rim and was covered in thick layers of dry paint, but it worked. When the designated puke bucket had been positioned near the head of the bed, no more than two feet from a slightly swaying Jay, Mal sat back down.

"Let's check you out. Yeah?"

It took him a long minute to respond. He looked at her, vaguely confused, and nodded.

Mal moved carefully but efficiently, taking Jay's face in her hands. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch and he mumbled something about her being cold. He was completely pliable as she turned him this way and that, fingers searching his scalp for any damage. She didn't find anything worrying. Just five small bruises across his jaw and cheeks.

She moved on. Jay watched as she worked him out of his vest. He wasn't wearing anything under it. She wasn't surprised, but she still felt her blood boil at the reminder of what had almost been done to her lieutenant. What had doubtlessly been done before.

There were bruises blooming over his biceps, a few shades lighter than his tattoo and each in the shape of a hand, another on his wrist, and patches of pink here and there down his back, already fading.

Nothing serious.

For a time they sat in an almost perfect quiet, Mal's fingertips resting against a handprint, wishing she could erase it and everything that went with it. The spirals of letters and symbols were supposed to protect him. He was hers. His skin bore her mark. It spread over his chest and back and both his biceps and it was _impossible_ to miss.

She pulled herself together when Jay's head began to nod, his eyelids drooping.

"Hey," she snapped, a hand under his chin to keep him looking at her. "None of that. I'm not done."

He mumbled something Mal didn't understand, but she took it as an affirmative. She very briefly pressed their foreheads together before standing up and stepping back. His skin was hot and sticky despite the cold Isle night.

"Don't fall over."

Jay didn't reply. Mal told herself that was fine. She walked to a lopsided desk against the second closest wall. It was covered with a stained tablecloth that went all the way to the floor, hiding three mostly-full jugs of mostly-clean water and an assortment of warped cups and chipped mugs without handles. She grabbed one of the tallest cups and one of the jugs, returned the tablecloth to its place, and returned to the bed where she filled the cup and set the jug on the side table.

Even though he was relaxed, Mal could tell Jay was on edge—that he seemed to have trouble tracking her movements probably didn't help—so she sat next to him, their legs pressed together, and carefully fitted her hand into his, giving him ample time to pull away. He didn't. Instead, he held her hand in a shaking but firm grip and leaned to touch their shoulders.

Mal gave him a few minutes to breathe, to listen to her own breaths, and to pull whatever he could from contact with her. But as much as she wanted to let him rest, there were still things to be done.

"Jay?"

He hummed.

"I need you to drink this for me." She held up the cup of water for him so see. He stared at it blankly, then looked back at her. He clearly did not want to. "I know," Mal said, squeezing his hand in hers. "I know. But I need you to, ok? It's just water, see?" She took a drink then held the cup out to him.

Jay watched her for a long minute, then carefully took the cup with a shaking hand. He closed his eyes as he raised it to his lips. When he lowered it it was empty. Mal took the cup back and set it on the side table.

"Thank you, Jay." He ducked his head to rest on her shoulder, which couldn't have been comfortable with their height difference.

Mal sighed and leaned her head against his. Tonight had sucked. Was going to keep sucking. Tomorrow was probably going to suck too. But she'd helped Jay today, in a way that was going to last. That… actually felt really good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Time for some thrilling heroics."  
> ~Firefly
> 
> Guys. Chapter three still isn't done. I hate not being able to find words. It's awful.
> 
> Any who, Love you all! See you when I finally get my crap together and finish the ending.
> 
> ~Rachel


	3. Jay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You sound dead.”
> 
> “Did I die?”
> 
> “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! I’m in the process of trialing medications for some stuff and these last few months left me feeling so apathetic and generally exhausted that I could not summon the will or energy to do much of anything other than watch netflix and take a truly concerning number of naps. 
> 
> ALSO! PRO TIP YALL: if you’re apologizing to someone, DONT MAKE IT ABOUT YOU!!!! Don’t say “I feel guilty” or “I just had to apologize” or “this has been eating me up” NO! Because now it’s about how YOU feel when it SHOULD be about how the OTHER PERSON is hurting. You should not be sorry because you feel bad and apologizing will make you feel better; you should be sorry because the other person has been wronged. I have feelings about this.
> 
> This chapter was so freaking hard to write I don’t wanna talk about it. And honestly, I hate this so much. On so many levels. I just… it exists, and right about now that’s a win. I did practically no editing and I didn’t even have the whole thing read through by anyone other than myself, so if you have any criticism or input it would be much appreciated!
> 
> That is all. Thank you for your time. Please enjoy.

Jay was aware of the hand on his forehead before he was aware of the fact that he was awake. Later, he would come to realize he didn’t remember waking up at all, just like he didn’t remember coming to understand that the hand on his forehead belonged to Mal, or that he wasn’t wearing a top. He also couldn’t remember last night, but that was a different kind of couldn’t remember that seemed closely tied to his throbbing head and roiling stomach.

If Mal hadn’t been there he probably would have panicked. But she was, and Jay knew she would take care of things for a while. He focused on the pressure at his left that meant he was laying on his side, and on the cold leather and fabric against his nose that smelled like fire and wind.

“Jay?” Mal’s voice was quiet as she swept her hand over his hair. “Are you awake, _saor_?”

He was tempted to pretend he was still asleep, not wanting to face his aching body and throbbing head and blank memory. But Mal was his gang head, and he could not refuse her.

He took a deep breath of winter and embers and whispered, “‘M here.”

Those two words alone were enough to light a fire in the back of his throat and bring attention to the horrible taste on his tongue. He felt his face twist in distaste.

Mal huffed.

“You sound dead.”

Jay peeked an eye open to glare at her, then shut it as the room tilted in a smear of harsh light. Mal’s hand brushed over his head again.

“Did I die?”

“No.”

Jay hummed, feeling Mal’s legs shift under the arm he had thrown over her thighs. He could tell she was thrumming with energy, tired of sitting still, ready to _do_ something. She wasn’t making him get up, though, and he sure as Hades wasn’t going to be the one to suggest moving.

When Mal’s patience wore out she didn’t give him any warning, just picked his arm up off her lap and hopped off the mattress. Jay rolled onto his stomach. Mal smacked his bare shoulder. He grumbled and curled up farther under his blanket.

“Up,” Mal demanded, her weight settling by his hip. Her hand made a thwaping sound on the blanket over his lower back. “Now.”

He aimed a pout at her, but peeled his eyes open nonetheless. The light wasn’t nearly as painful this time; Jay flopped onto his back with a groan. He was probably being a little over the top, but Mal looked coolly amused rather than vaguely murderous, so he figured he was clear to have some fun with his agony. Besides, whining about his sore body gave him something to focus on other than his empty memory.

Mal stood again, eyes narrowed, hips tilted, lips twisted in a little sneer. That particular glare she reserved for her gang.

“You’re sadistic,” Jay said, but hoisted himself to sitting. Something deep in him wobbled. That… probably wasn’t a good sign.

“I know. Get up.” She offered him a hand, and if it had been anyone else he would have scoffed at it and shoved to his feet on his own. But it was Mal, and rejecting her help was tantamount to disrespect. Besides, if he felt like this sitting, standing was going to be a whole new depth of Tartarus.

Jay wasn't fully upright before his stomach lurched. He doubled over the bucket Mal thrust under his chin. There wasn't much in him to expel, but his body certainly tried. He retched twice more, thick strings of bile and saliva hit the bottom of the bucket with a wet splat. He closed his eyes against the mess and the smell and the dizziness, Mal’s cold hand on his bare shoulder just enough to keep him standing.

“You done for now?”

Jay nodded, then grimaced as his head spun.

“Right.”

Her hand shifted against his skin and there was a hollow thunk, likely from the bucket returning to the floor.

“I’m gonna let you go. Don’t fall over.”

He made a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat. Mal took it as an affirmative and stepped away. Jay forced his eyes open when he felt his balance falter.

Mal had taken the few steps to the bedside table and was pouring water into a plastic cup. It was weird that she’d left such a precious resource in the open like that, despite how secure the hideout was.

That didn’t matter though, because Mal was standing in front of him again, cup in one hand, the other on her hip, considering him.

Jay realized he should probably be concerned about facing her cold gaze head on like this, but she hadn’t killed him yet, and he was too miserable to care much beyond that.

Never taking her eyes from his, Mal raised the cup to her lips and took a drink. When she finished she held the rest out to him and Jay couldn’t tell if the glitter in her eyes was fae or the weak morning light.

“Drink.”

It was an order, and Jay didn’t plan on defying her. He took the cup and drained it as quickly as he could. He made a face when he finished, his stomach grumbling its displeasure.

“Breathe, _saor_.” Mal’s hand was on his shoulder again and the cold touch made it impossible to consider disobedience. “Okay,” she said, taking the cup back and setting it on the side table. “Okay. Next, you need a wash: you smell worse than the wharf.”

Her declaration startled a half-laugh out of him. Mal didn’t smile back, but she did something close and steered him toward the cleaning area with both hands keeping him steady and that was about the same.

The cleaning area took up a back corner of the warehouse and contained a lopsided plastic stool, a pulley system that created a makeshift shower when filled, a cracked mirror with missing sections, a large, mostly-intact bowl, a few towels and rags, a small collection of Evie’s beauty supplies, and sealed jugs of tinted water that wasn’t safe to drink.

Jay stripped his pants and sat on the stool when Mal gave him the order. She moved about the small space while Jay watched her without any real focus.

There was a series of wet cluggs and bloops and drips behind him, and then Mal was collecting his hair off his neck and swiping a wet rag over his skin. She wasn’t gentle—Mal was never gentle—but she was careful and thorough and if it hurt it was good pain. He was glad for that, because right now, with his pounding head and aching body and skin feeling too hot and too tight, he didn’t know if he could handle one of Mal’s punishments.

And wasn’t that just pathetic?

He was supposed to be tough. He _needed_ to be tough or he was useless to her. _“I’m the best thief on the Isle,”_ he’d told her, back when they were both still kids and she was gathering her crew. She’d told him to prove it and ignored him until he did.

He liked to think their relationship had changed in the years since, but he couldn’t be sure. There was always a chance she would dump him if he couldn’t meet her standards, and Mal had very high standards.

Evie wasn’t just the fairest of them all, she was a master manipulator, a seductress, an enchantress, and a chemist. She was brilliant and composed and graceful in everything she did. Carlos was small, but he was quick and vicious and crafty. His brain worked faster than anyone else on the Isle.

And Mal… Mal was terrifying. She was a dragon wearing human skin. She was brutal and sly and her very presence demanded obedience. She was what every villain hoped for in their spawn. She was what every VK dared not hope for in a leader.

And there was no way she still believed Jay was exceptional enough to be in her crew.

He couldn’t remember anything from last night, but he’d woken up feeling like this before and had his suspicions about what it meant. He didn’t inspect those suspicions very thoroughly.

Jay was sure of one thing though:

“I owe you,” he said quietly.

Mal’s slow circles stuttered on his back. He winced when she started again, rougher than before. Her touch smoothed again, but Jay could still feel tension in her ministrations.

“You were the first person to take me out of my mother’s shackles.” Her voice was steel and ice—steady—but he remembers that night. Remembers the way her skin had blistered and her body trembled. “You carried me out on your back. You owe me nothing.”

“That’s my job, Mal. You _own_ me.”

“Don’t you forget it. You’re part of my crew. Nothing’s changed.”

A tight pressure in his chest Jay hadn’t noticed until then loosened and it was suddenly so much easier to breathe. He felt himself relax into Mal’s careful scrubbing, the water wonderfully chilly dribbling down his skin.

“Jay?”

He opened his eyes, not quite remembering when he had shut them.

“ _Naem_?”

“Don’t let me hear you say you owe anyone again. Understood?” There was a quiet, careful fury in her voice that made his throat feel funny, but he managed a nod.

“Wonderful,” Mal said. She continued to scrub away sweat and the scent vomit and the dingy coating of dirt over his skin. It hurt, just a bit.

When she finished his back she moved to his chest and arms and legs and face and even his hair.

When she was done she dropped the rag into the bowl of water and crouched in front of him. Her eyes roamed his face. She tucked a bit of his hair behind his ear, rested her hand over his shoulder, his bicep, his wrist, intertwined their fingers. He watched her trail her gaze over old scars and newer bruises and the lines of her tattoo on his skin.

“Jay,” she said, staring at their hands still clasped together and resting on his knee, “I want you to listen to me: you are mine. Your mind, your magic, your body: mine. Someone tries to tell you different? Tries to hurt you? Violate you? You tell me. You do whatever you have to to get to me—wherever I am, whatever I’m doing—and you tell me. Because if someone hurts you, then they’ve damaged what’s mine; they’ve insulted me; they’ve declared _war_ and I will come after them with everything at my disposal. Do you understand me?”

At some point during her declaration she’d looked up at his face. Her eyes were glowing.

Jay nodded but Mal shook her head.

“No,” she continued. “That’s not enough: I want to hear you _say_ it, _saor_.”

“ _Naem_ , Mal. I understand you.”

Mal searched his face but nodded, and with her free hand she clasped the back of his neck and pulled him close enough to press a kiss to his forehead. He could feel some of his own heat leach away into her cold skin; he closed his eyes in acceptance.

Jay belonged to a dragon wearing human skin, and he had never been more glad of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all need to go watch Kipo and the age of Wonderbeasts on Netflix. I binged all three seasons recently and it was wonderful. There’s a canonicly gay character! It’s one of the most diverse cartoons I’ve ever seen! There was an incredible understanding of what kinds of antagonists are redeemable, and which ones aren’t. There are other more wonderful things as well but right about now my brain is fried and I have no more effort to spare. Go watch it. Write fanfictions for it. DO IT NOW! 
> 
> You should also watch Julie and the Phantoms. Cheyenne Jackson and Booboo Stewart and Jadah Marie are all in it (they play Hades, Jay, and Celia Facilier) and it’s directed by Kenny Ortega (who directed Descendants). Main character isn’t caucasian, canonically gay character, wonderful female friendship, beautiful music, intriguing antagonist, the girls who don’t get along still respect each other (if grudgingly), and the fandom just wants everyone to be a big happy family and it’s beautiful. It’s only ten episodes. Plus, Booboo Stewart in a crop top + dramatic hair flip. Basically, just go watch it.
> 
> If you wanna come say hi to me I’m on instagram @heyrachelviolet I mostly post artsy/fanish stuff and I’d love to chat with you if you are so inclined. Also feel free to PM me on ff.net, or email, if that’s more your speed (heyrachel. violet @ gmail. com)
> 
> That’s all I got for you lovely people. Keep faith. Stay safe. Stay joyful. Love you all.
> 
> “You and I both know you’re capable and intelligent, so don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” ~How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Tomas C. Foster

**Author's Note:**

> So... that happened. Please don't hate me.
> 
> Next chapter will be up in about a week. Hopefully.
> 
> “He had a cold eye and a coiling tension. Like a snake, the poets might say, but I knew snakes better by then. Give me the honest asp, who strikes me if I trouble him and not before.”  
> ~Circe by Madeline Miller


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